


Five Times Anthea Was Patient, and One Time When She Wasn't

by nothingventurred (nothingventured)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Reichenbach, progression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingventured/pseuds/nothingventurred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Anthea was as patient as a saint, and one time when she utterly and completely wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Anthea was patient was during her and Mycroft Holmes’ first meeting.

She was still fairly new, fresh out of medical school, where she studied psychiatry, but she considered herself much wiser and more intelligent than many of her peers. She’d spent most of her spare time studying, and had learned everything she was able to about her own career path, but also world government, military procedure, international etiquette, etc. She didn’t consider herself an expert, by any means (who was she kidding, yes she did), but she did know a fair bit more than anyone she’d come across. She enjoyed learning about the world’s customs, and considered studying abroad her very last year, but found herself short on funding. Still, she hoped one day she’d travel all over the world.

After being contacted by Mycroft’s administration, which she found odd in itself, though not really; she had graduated top of her class, after all, she’d attended the appointment they set up for her. It wasn’t her first job interview, by far, but it was the oddest, if she did say so herself. Mycroft Holmes held a minor position in the British government; he could afford the best psychiatrist in the world..so why pick her? She was confident in her skills, yes, but she was far from being the best. It was interesting, though, so she decided to attend the interview.

It was interesting, to say the least, with several security screenings and questions about her personal life and past that she thought were rather invasive, but answered anyway. She had nothing to lose, she figured. 

“So, what skills do you possess that make you a qualified assistant?”

The tall brunette nearly spit out the (terribly-made) coffee she’d been offered. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You are interviewing for the position of personal assistant to Mycroft Holmes.”

“What, like a secretary?” Anthea asked, barely able to keep the incredulity out of her voice. “I was told I’d be interviewing for a position on the medical staff.”

“We don’t have a medical staff here, Miss. We apologise if there has been a mix-up. Who contacted you?” the dark-haired man in front of her asked, though he didn’t seem particularly interested in the answer.

“I’m unsure, actually. He gave a name, but I can’t remember it,” Anthea answered, mildly frustrated. “So, you’re telling me I’m interviewing for, essentially a secretarial position?”

“That’s correct.”

A voice from behind her caused the brunette to turn in her chair, and her eyes fell upon another man standing in the doorway. She recognized the same voice from the phone call she received earlier, asking her to interview for a position on the medical staff of Mycroft’s office.

He was dressed in an ill-fitting grey suit, had rather thick glasses, freckles, and a well-combed but painfully gingery crop of red hair on his head. He walked elegantly for a man of his size (she put him at around two hundred seventy pounds, at least, his rather large stomach perhaps creating an illusion of a rotund figure) and was carrying an umbrella that was also ill-proportioned to his body. If she had to put a label on him, she would have said ‘dork’, but she was too nice for that. Besides, he probably worked a desk job, pushing pencils for the elusive Mycroft Holmes.

“Miss...Anthea, is it?” the man said, stepping in between Anthea and the desk where her interviewer was currently sitting in shock.

“That it is,” she replied, raising an eyebrow. “I was told, by you, actually, that I would be interviewing for a psychiatrist’s position. I was lied to, obviously.”

“Obviously,” the ginger replied, looking a tad bored.

“And you are?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” he extended his hand, long fingers slightly spread apart. She eyed him almost in disbelief, and shook his hand, returning her own delicate one to her lap before crossing one of her legs over the other. A defiant position, she had learned in school; one that spoke more than words ever could. 

“You are the one who called me? Since when do bureaucrats do their own work?” the corners of her mouth twitched up; she was enjoying this more than she ought to, she knew.

Mycroft’s expression didn’t change, but she thought she saw a gleam in the ginger’s eye and decided to push further. “You called me to offer me a psychiatrist’s position, something I trained for for years, and now your employee,” she gestured vaguely at the man behind the desk, “Is telling me I am to be a secretary if I accept this job?”

“A PA, not a secretary,” Mycroft replied, reaching up to push his glasses further up his nose, leaving a slight smudge on the left lens from a clumsily placed, chubby finger. “You interested me, and you would have never come had I told you the actual position you were interviewing for.”

“So you lied to me over the phone to lure me here, expecting me to just be cool with all of this?” she questioned, an expression of almost...amusement on her face. “You are not as...shall we say, sociable as they say, Mycroft.”

“Mr. Holmes.” Mycroft replied icily, glaring at the brunette woman. “Are you interested? The pay is excellent.” His own mouth twitched for a split second before resuming his stony expression. Anthea pretended not to see it, but it piqued her interest. “I saw the pay,” she murmured, “And the benefits are lovely. But do I really want to take this position? I didn’t spend all those years in school just to push pencils for you, _Mr. Holmes_.”

“Then perhaps you would prefer to leave?” Mycroft gestured to the door. “There is no permanent contract, you may leave when you like.”

 _”I could just try it.”_ she mused, _”He does seem interesting...in a basket-case kind of way. Oh, hell with it, why not?”_

“I can leave when I want?” she asked. She received little more than an almost-imperceptible nod in return. 

She thought it over for a few more moments, then shrugged, standing up. “Mr. Holmes,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You have yourself a PA. For now.”

“Excellent.” the man replied, “You start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?!”

“Problem?”

She couldn’t stand to see the smug look on the ginger’s face for another minute, and narrowed her eyes.

“None at all. I look forward to working with you. I’m sure it will be an interesting experience.”


	2. Chapter 2

The second time Anthea was patient, Mycroft was in a state of near panic.

The woman had a briefcase slung over her shoulder, and an expression of both curiosity and mild horror on her face when she arrived at Mycroft’s door. He was frantically scrambling for both his mobile phone and his landline, all the while turning very flustered and red as he half-shouted orders into both receivers. 

“No, I don’t care what he says, they’re going to fold, we need to be- No, I didn’t order that!”

“You idiot, I said to send the _Belgian_ senator’s appointment for tomorrow, not the Swedish one! For God’s sake, must I do everything myself?! No, no...Wait, is that even possible?! Put her on the phone.”

“No, you know what, she is fired. So are you. You all are! Just _FIX IT!_ ” the government official slammed down the receiver hard enough to knock over a cup of pens on his desk, and scrubbed a hand over his face. 

“Mr. Holmes?” the woman asked, cocking her head as she approached the desk (which was in horrible disarray), “Are you okay?”

“Ah, Anthea, perfect timing,” the man’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “You’re just in time to manage paperwork during World War three, how wonderful.”

She suppressed a biting remark, seeing how disheveled the man was, and decided to brush off his snide comment. “Tell me what I need to do.”

Mycroft rattled off a list of nearly thirty things, among which were making calls, finishing paperwork he’d become too busy to, and to bring him tea. She didn’t appreciate being treated like a maidservant, but decided it was better not to argue at the moment. Courtesy and all that.

“Yes sir.” she replied, setting her briefcase down next to his desk and picking up the receiver, dialing one of the many numbers that had been dictated to her, and which she had carefully catalogued in her mind. After speaking for several minutes to the person on the other end, she hung up and dialed the second number. This repeated over and over for about an hour, and finally, she set the receiver back into its cradle and looked up at Mycroft, who was currently shuffling paperwork around on the other side of the room. 

“Sir?” she approached him, a satisfied tone in her voice. “Your two o’clock appointment has been rescheduled, and your appointments for Wednesday have been moved to Thursday, just as you requested. The American ambassador sends his apologies, he will not be able to attend the summit next week, and has asked to reschedule. I told him you were busy at the moment but that I would get back to him within the hour. What do you say?”

Mycroft paused, standing up slowly and turning around to face her. There wasn’t much of a height difference between them, what with Anthea already being tall, even out of heels. “You’ve...all of it is finished?”

“Yes.” she allowed herself a smirk. “I trust I have completed my tasks to your satisfaction, judging by the expression you are currently wearing, which currently looks almost guppy-like, if I may be so bold. _Sir_.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and he huffed. “Yes, well...Have you had experience before?”

“I worked for a sales company as a telemarketer to get myself through school. I can multitask.” she replied, holding her hand out for the folder in Mycroft’s hand. “I assume you need several of these papers signed and sent out, yes? Sign them, and I will organise them for you and mail them off.”

“I...yes...thank you.” Mycroft was speechless; his assistants usually didn’t last more than ten minutes, let alone more than an hour. And none had had an attitude quite like Anthea. Briefly, he allowed himself to entertain the thought that perhaps she would stick around.

He didn’t know at the time quite how right he would prove to be.


	3. Chapter 3

The third time Anthea was patient, Mycroft was throwing a tantrum.

“Mycroft, it is not a big deal,” she said, exasperated, “It’s a bit of fluctuation, it’s to be expected! You’re doing brilliantly so far! I mean, just look at you! Don’t you feel better than you did before?”

The previous year (which was Anthea’s fifth year with Mycroft) the government official had decided, with Anthea’s support and encouragement, to lose a bit of weight, as he was heavy enough to be considered obese, and was worried about his health. He’d done brilliantly, avoiding over-eating, sweets and the like, though Anthea did encourage him to have small rewards to keep himself on track, and had lost nearly seventy pounds. Anthea (though she loathed to admit it) unabashedly thought he was hot, and didn’t hesitate to tell him just how many people would be falling at his feet soon, what with the transformation he’d gone through.

After first dealing with his tantrums, she’d learned the do’s and don’ts of caring for a Holmes, which was a long, complicated, and often confusing list, even for her. Usually, they were manageable, much like one would manage a child’s tantrum (food, rest, attention, etc.), but sometimes they were pretty terrifying, even for a woman of her experience. She silently thanked whatever deity was out there that she’d had so much training, because she doubted any other assistant, or even another psychiatrist could handle a Holmes fury. Usually, his tantrums were manageable.

Usually being the operative word.

“Mycroft, you look fine! Perfectly healthy!” 

“I do not, Anthea,” he snapped back, “There is a five-pound difference between this week and last week. Guess which way the scale went.”

“Mycroft, as I said, it’s fluctuation. Here, look,” she slipped off her shoes and let them fall onto the tile floor. Anyone else would have been mildly disturbed, had their boss asked them to attend their every gym session/weigh-in, but at this point, Anthea felt she’d left normal in the review mirror thousands of kilometers ago. Plus, she was given access to Mycroft's private gym, so it wasn't all bad.

She half-shoved the ginger off the scale and stepped on herself, waiting for the arrow to stop moving. “There, look,” she pointed out, “Six pound difference. Not a big deal. It’s just water weight, if you ate certain things, don’t forget you flew earlier this week. Terrible airline food, etc. There is really no reason to panic.”

Anthea stepped off the scale and smoothed down her shirt, giving Mycroft an expectant look. Mycroft stared back at her, still unconvinced, but the tension had left his body. “Mycroft,” she murmured, reaching out to place a hand on Mycroft’s arm, “Talk to me.”

Mycroft huffed. “You’re my PA, not my shrink.”

“I am your PA, your shrink, your mother, your nurse, your bodyguard, and your chess partner. Though, I always beat you, so I think I’d be considered your chess nemesis. Oh, and your friend, but we're getting off-topic. In any case, I’m still a shrink. Talk to me, talk at me, anything. Come on.”

The ginger remained silent, eyeing Anthea warily.

“Come on, freckles,” she muttered affectionately, giving Mycroft’s arm a squeeze, “Don’t you trust me?”

“Don’t call me ‘freckles’,” Mycroft muttered, “And yes, I trust you.” He sighed, his shoulders sagging a bit. “It’s just frustrating.” 

“I know,” she replied, giving his left bicep a pat. “Try looking at how far you’ve come, instead of the distance left to go.”

“What are you, a self-help book? Honestly- ow!” Mycroft winced as Anthea’s hand collided with his chest. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a walking self-help book,” she smirked, “Seriously, though. Look at you now.”

Mycroft sighed, and scrubbed a hand over his face; she was right. After he knew for sure Anthea wasn’t going to be leaving, he started listening to her advice. He’d rid himself of his awful glasses, gotten contacts and some proper-fitting suits, and even allowed her to dye his hair a dark auburn, a colour she said suited him better. He had to agree with her there, he much preferred the auburn as well.

“You’re right,” he sighed.

“Hey, that’s rare. Can you say that again, I want that as my new ringtone.” she pulled out her Blackberry and held it up, smirking. He glared at his assistant. “Oh, shut up, Anthea.”


	4. Chapter 4

The fourth time Anthea was patient, Mycroft was crying.

She stepped into her boss of nine years’ office, and immediately noticed something was wrong. The sofa was in disarray, which Mycroft hated, and his desk chair looked as if it had been sat in and shifted around in several hundred times.

Setting down the cup of tea she’d made for Mycroft, she slipped off her shoes (which she didn’t even know why she bothered wearing, anymore, considering how much time she and Mycroft spent either at the other's home, in the office, or on planes) and quietly listened for any sign of the government official. Breathing, movement, anything; she heard nothing.

She was about to shrug it off as just Mycroft being his odd self, when she heard a sniff. No, it was more of a sniffle. It was coming from the second door on the left of his office, which was the attached loo. The woman slowly approached the door, pressing her ear against the wood. She definitely wasn’t imagining anything, that was definitely Mycroft. Was he...crying?

Taking a slow breath, she gently knocked on the door. “Myc? You okay?”

The sounds on the other side of the door stopped, and she froze for a minute. “Can I come in, dear?”

“Go away, Anthea.” She cringed at the sound of his voice. He sounded utterly heartbroken, as if he was in a type and severity of pain she couldn’t even begin to imagine. “No,” she replied, “I’m coming in in two minutes.”

A click on the other side of the door was her only reply, and she scowled. “Mycroft, you know I won’t hesitate to shoot the knob off. You’ve two minutes.”

A minute went by, then thirty more seconds, and Anthea was preparing to draw her weapon (which she’d spent years getting permission to carry) when a soft click sounded on the other side of the door. “Please go away.” Mycroft’s voice was soft, pleading. “Please. Go away.”

“Sorry, can’t. Make sure you’re decent.” She counted to fifteen in her head before opening the door, finding Mycroft seated on the floor, his back against the wall and his face streaked with tears. A cell phone was at his side, and both his hands were shaking violently, his shoulders heaving with suppressed sobs.

“Oh, Myc,” she murmured, kneeling down in front of him and brushing both her hands over his face. “What’s wrong?”

“I...S-Sher...” Mycroft let out another soft sob and turned away. “Please leave me alone.”

“You don’t know me very well at all, do you?” she murmured, sitting down next to him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Come on,” she said softly, guiding his head down onto her shoulder. “What about Sherlock? I'm your friend, you’re supposed to cry on my shoulder. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Mycroft whispered, finally resigning his earlier protests and nearly falling into Anthea’s arms. 

“What’s not okay?”

Mycroft swallowed hard. “Sherlock’s dead,” he said quietly, sounding almost dazed. “Jumped off St. Bart’s.”

Anthea’s chest clenched in pain, and she pulled the ginger closer. “Oh, My,” she whispered, “Oh, god...I’m so sorry. That’s the last thing you want to hear, I know, but-”

“It’s my fault,” he murmured, “S’ my fault. All of it.”

“No, no it isn’t,” Anthea insisted, “You listen to me, Mycroft Holmes. It is _not_ your fault. Sherlock made the choice to jump, you didn’t force him to. I know your goal has always been to protect him, but..” she swallowed, tears springing to her own eyes. “You can’t protect people from themselves.”

Mycroft let out a whimper, pressed his forehead into Anthea’s neck, and let the floodgates burst open. He sobbed openly into her jacket, the first time in nine years he’d ever cried in front of her. In front of anyone, actually. 

The woman held him close, letting him cry into her shoulder, his entire frame shaking violently with pent-up grief and anger, her own eyes becoming wet as she heard his sobs. She hadn’t particularly liked Sherlock, but Mycroft spent most of his life trying to protect the little brother he’d had to raise, and really, no one deserves to die in disgrace like Sherlock did.

She held him for hours, silently cursing everyone who had been involved in the events that led up to Sherlock’s suicide, and, when he’d finished crying and had fallen asleep on his sofa after careful coaxing from the woman, she pulled out her mobile to make the funeral arrangements she knew would pain Mycroft far too much.


	5. Chapter 5

The fifth time Anthea was patient was after Sherlock returned.

She’d resisted the urge to punch the arsehole in the face when he showed up at Mycroft’s office (after the initial shock, of course), but the urge was lifted when she saw Mycroft’s face. 

She could pinpoint each emotion on his face as he stepped into her office, his eyes widening at the sight of his brother.

Shock.

Disbelief.

Awe.

Anger.

Relief.

He’d sunk to his knees in front of Sherlock, the knees of his expensive suit hitting the carpet. The government official had let out a sound Anthea had never heard before (and hoped to never hear again) and begun sobbing into the front of his younger brother’s coat.

She’d watched the two brothers interact for several minutes, then felt like she was intruding, almost, and had left to finish her work in Mycroft’s office.

Hours later, the government official had come into his own office, eyes still swollen and red, holding his brother’s scarf. The pair were silent for several minutes, merely looking at each other and trying to read the other’s eyes. Finally, Mycroft spoke. 

“I’m so sorry for that,” he murmured, wiping at his eyes, “I lost control and I-”

He was interrupted by Anthea throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him, pressing her cheek against his. "That moron is lucky I didn't murder him," she whispered, squeezing him tighter, "What with all he put you through these past three years...”

“He’s safe, Anthea,” the elder Holmes murmured into her shoulder, “That...That is all I could ask for, really.”

Anthea held him marginally tighter; in the three years Sherlock had been gone, Mycroft had put on weight, become both an insomniac and mildly depressed, and developed several stress-related medical issues. She held him for awhile longer as he explained what Sherlock had done in detail, her delicate yet still thoroughly-weathered hand stroking his left cheek, her fingertips brushing over the crow’s feet currently residing in the corners of the government official’s eyes. She had a sudden memory of the awkward, chubby, dorky Mycroft she had first met, and a warm feeling of nostalgia surged through her. She turned and kissed the corner of her boss’ (hell, he was her best friend) cheek, recalling a time when she would have left lipstick stains on his pale, freckled skin. “I’m so glad he’s back, love,” she murmured, stroking Mycroft’s thinning curls. 

“So am I, Anthea,” he murmured, leaning his head against hers. “So am I.”


	6. Chapter 6

And the one time she wasn’t. 

“Mycroft,” the woman crossed her arms, the thinning skin on her hands tucking under each forearm. “It’s time you took a holiday. Hell, most people are retiring at your age.”

“Nonsense,” the formerly ginger official muttered with a wave of his hand, “I plan to die in my desk chair whilst shouting at you to fetch me tea. I will die as I lived.”

“Yeah, as a pain in the arse,” Anthea rolled her eyes, striding over towards Mycroft’s desk and giving one of his white and ginger curls a tug. “Come on, isn’t there anywhere you want to go? Most people go places with their wives, husbands, children. You, _Sir_ , do nothing but work, shout at me, read and sleep. How boring.” She sat on the edge of the desk, blocking Mycroft’s view of the news before shutting it off with the remote she’d managed to nick off his chair. 

“Come on,” she urged, tucking a strand of her greying hair behind her ear. “Isn’t there anything you want to do, people you want to see, places you want to go?”

“Work, you, and to work, in that order,” Mycroft replied, leaning to the side to try and get the remote back from his best mate. Anthea smirked and held it high in the air, dangling it just out of Mycroft’s reach.

“Oh, that isn’t fair,” Mycroft muttered, “You know I have a bad knee.”

“Yes, and I also know you need a holiday or you’ll go utterly mad,” she chuckled. “Even your brother takes holidays.”

“My brother has someone to distract him,” Mycroft muttered, almost bitterly.

Anthea sat back for a moment, her smile replaced with an expression of both sympathy and understanding. “Hey,” she said quietly, reaching out to tuck another curl behind Mycroft’s ear. “I’d distract you, you know. We’re friends.”

“Yes, but Sherlock has...more than I do.” Mycroft sighed softly. “Nevermind.”

“No, not nevermind,” the woman murmured, carefully kneeling in front of Mycroft’s chair. She took his hands in her own and looked up at him, affection in her eyes. “You have so much, Myc. A life, a wonderful job, friends...”

“What’s the point of that if I am alone, Anthea?” he questioned, “I spent my entire life working to get here,” he gestured around the office, “And yet...it doesn’t mean anything. I will die eventually, have my name mentioned in history books that will collect dust on the shelves of libraries, perhaps have my name put on a plaque outside a hospital wing my estate money went to build. Other than that...I will be forgotten.”

“Oi, Socrates, there’s nothing wrong with not being famous,” she teased gently, patting his cheek. “Everybody’s forgotten eventually.”

“How depressing.” Mycroft remarked. “Not really,” the woman replied, leaning forward to gently kiss Mycroft’s cheek. “If you think about it, we’re little flesh-creatures on a pebble of a planet floating in the vast majority that is our universe, among other universes. We are insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but here...we are significant because we create our own significance.”

Mycroft smiled, almost sadly. “Ah, Anthea. Ever the philosopher.”

“Well, I try,” she chuckled, “One has to rationalise that we must matter when one has to deal with your tantrums on a daily basis.”

“Frustrations, not tantrums,” Mycroft corrected before sighing softly. “Sometimes I wonder...Well, it isn’t important.”

“I know,” she replied, “I do too.”

“What are you wondering about?”

“You first.”

“I was going to say, sometimes I wonder what life would have been like had you not given me the attitude you did when we first met. Good god, was it really thirty years ago?”

“Don’t even talk about that,” she groaned, “You’re making me feel old.”

“You are old,” he chuckled. “As am I.”

“Ever the charmer, you are,” she smirked. 

“So what were you wondering about?”

“Well,” she tilted her head. “I was wondering what things would have been like had I not been so patient with you all these years.”

“You? Patient?”

Anthea smacked Mycroft’s good knee, grinning. “Yes, patient. I’m surprised I didn’t have you drowned after working with you a week, to be honest.”

“And yet you’ve stayed thirty years. Might that say something about you?”

“Yeah, that I’m a masochist,” Anthea rolled her eyes. “I am tired of being patient, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“For a genius, you’re an idiot, you know that?” she murmured before slowly leaning up and pressing her lips against his. He froze for a moment, unsure of how to react, then relaxed into her kiss, keeping his own soft lips pressed against hers. After several minutes, Anthea pulled away, searching Mycroft’s face for any clue as to what his reaction was. “See, I’ve been very patient in waiting,” she murmured, “I thought you would have known by the twentieth year we spent together, when I gave you my father’s tree, remember?”

“The one...oh.” Realisation crossed Mycroft’s face, making his expression appear wide open and innocent. 

“Ah, there it is,” she chuckled, tucking a curl behind the man’s ear. “So, as I said, you won’t be forgotten. Not for a long time.”

“Approximately twenty-seven years, based on your family’s history-”

“Will you shut up? You’re ruining the moment.”

“What moment?”

Anthea half-laughed, half-sighed. “You’re impossible.” she said affectionately. “I love you, you know. Always have.”

“You took long enough to tell me,” Mycroft replied, reaching up to stroke Anthea’s cheek, his thumb brushing over the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, which were still just as bright and inquisitive as the day they’d met. 

“Who is supposed to be the genius, again?” she muttered, turning her head to press a kiss to Mycroft’s palm. “You took long enough to notice. I am thoroughly sick of being patient.”

The government official smiled up at the woman he’d known for thirty years; his partner in crime, his PA, his best friend...his everything, really, and leaned up for another kiss. 

“Then, my dear,” he said softly, just as their lips met again. “Don’t be.


End file.
